


Black Letter

by wren_dean



Category: Heathers (1988), Pump Up the Volume (1990)
Genre: Alcohol, Cuddling, Fluff, M/M, Social Anxiety, crack ship, idk what tags to put i am chronic dumbass, slightly nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-10-04 05:15:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wren_dean/pseuds/wren_dean
Summary: One anonymous penman has always stuck out to Mark.





	Black Letter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [co-host](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4500606) by [PacketofRedApples](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PacketofRedApples/pseuds/PacketofRedApples). 

> Kind of like a Nora is JD AU? Honestly i don't know, I'm just getting a feel for this dynamic so I wanted something simple to start off with. Sorry if it's kind of awkwardly written, I don't have a lot of experience writing fluff, or fanfictions at all for that matter. In this AU they're 18 (Mark) and 19(JD).

A young boy, Mark Hunter, fidgeted with a jet black envelope in his hands, heart pounding in his chest, mind focusing on so many things at once yet nothing at all. Nobody had noticed him leave the post office; he had to tell himself that. Mark bumbled his way across the crosswalk and to a bench underneath some trees.

It was risky to be holding his letters so exposed, so close to the post office, on the same road as his peers walking home, but right now he needed to breathe. That's what you do when you're anxious right? Just like that, he was suddenly aware of his shallow breaths, his clenched jaw, his rigid shoulders.

He allowed himself to relax, deep breaths, and slowly slip back into the real world, where he was simply a green-eyed, brunette, somewhat short young man sitting on a bench with--

Right, the letter. The rest of his-- Or really, Harry's-- letters had been quickly slipped into his backpack, but the one simply couldn't leave his hands. Black paper, black envelope, writing in white gel pen as usual. Sure, plenty of listeners sent in letters with their own "unique" twists: glitter pens, printed paper, drawings, but "Beloved", as he called himself, made the rest of the letters look like crackhead Kindergarten crafts and painfully forced middle-school essays.

The boy rubbed his thumb across the edge of it. Something about it was enthralling to him, that's for sure. Maybe it was the things he wrote.. the things he wrote about... or perhaps the consistency... One jet-black, cum-written envelope every Friday. Mark took a moment to mentally chuckle at himself.. "cum-written" ... clearly Harry's nonsensical dirty talk had seeped into his thought processes.

Whoever this Beloved person was, he was dedicated. Maybe that was what enthralled him, what made his face hot and his heart speed up (But this time in a good way). Maybe Mark enthralled Beloved just as much. Somehow it seemed impossible-- the cool language, smooth writing, almost nonchalant despite the content.. but anyone who sent a letter every week on the dot must be pretty enthralled, right? The boy smiled to himself. The word had lost all meaning already.

\---

Though he had barely scraped past having more panicked episodes on the walk home, he eventually made it to his porch and let himself in as usual, glad to find that his parents were gone. Fucked off to some school board meeting or something. Did he even pay attention to what they said to him anymore?

The rebel grabbed one of his dad's beers and made his way downstairs, drinking as he went. The first few sips were more refreshing than usual; usually he drank at night to help him loosen up for the semi-persona that Hard Harry was. Daytime drinking for the sole purpose of relaxing after a tense day was something he seldom enjoyed.

He hopped his way downstairs with a confidence that now began to show itself as he was out of the public's all-seeing eye. Even the slight musty smell of his room (It was technically the basement, after all) sparked excitement in him. The door swung open and he presented himself to the nobodies in his room like a hysterical stage performer, through which his beer swung up to the tune of his body and splattered on the floor.

"Fuck," he groaned. He sat the beer can down on a stool and did his usual costume change. Backpack thrown to the floor, glasses off, jacket hung up, and shirt balled up in his hand.

A now-shirtless Mark tossed the balled-up flannel onto the spilled beverage and did some kind of pathetic prayer of hoping it wouldn't stain, but also not really caring at all. The boy stretched and released a deep breath, along with a deep swig of whatever beer was left.

He made his way to his set-up, enjoying the alcohol that was starting to kick in. It was nowhere near time to start his nightly broadcast, but he still liked to inspect and sort through his-- what most would call-- complete mess, as though someone would break into his room and steal his microphone or something.

That was exactly when he did notice something, something he wasn't expecting at all despite what he was just thinking. The microphone was gone. He frantically checked underneath the piles of clothes covering the set-up, but it was nowhere to be found.

The increasingly panicked boy had bent over to check the floor when he heard a disembodied voice from the far end of his vast room, smoky and raspy,

"What a view."

Mark whipped around to see a tall and slender coated boy leaning next to the patio door. In his hand was his microphone, though it wasn't plugged into anything, he had his hand held up high and wrist limp at an angle to look like he was talking into it. Despite the relatively nonthreatening disposition of the intruder, fear gripped the smaller boy.

He wanted to yell who are you? what are you doing in my room? how did you get in? but the familiar dry feeling in his throat set in, and he was practically mute. While he kept his eyes on his intruder, his hand searched for his switchblade.

The dark boy squinted his eyes and scoffed as if Mark was supposed to laugh.

"Come on, Harry," the accented voice rasped again as the shadow of a boy stepped closer.

Through the panic and confusion, puzzle pieces moved hazily in Mark's mind. It had to be Beloved. The boy looked almost exactly like his letters; adorned in all black with a long gunslinger coat like the triangular edges of his envelopes and cool, ashen skin like the white cursive writing.

"Beloved?" an increasingly perplexed Mark croaked out. A grin spread across Beloved's face.

"That took you long enough," he teased. He made his way over to Mark and leaned himself on the desk, eyeing the clothes-covered setup until his gaze drifted to whatever was in the radio host's hand. The host had apparently forgotten he was holding anything, because he immediately felt the same heat in his face as earlier before quickly realizing his misinterpretation.

He flushed even more at his mistake, but the intruder didn't seem to notice.

"You haven't read it yet?" Beloved asked with faux hurt in his voice, though the obvious teasing didn't stop Mark from feeling a pang in his chest.

He shook his head and took a moment to review the boy, who was beginning to look rather impatient. It was safe enough to assume he was meant to open the letter in front of him, but he was suddenly suspicious (Or curious... He couldn't really tell). His green eyes raked him, this time up close, recognizing russet eyes, a silver hoop earring, an unfairly sharp jawline, and full pink lips that looked so very--

"Well, Harry?" his rasp interrupted his thoughts. Harry was enunciated as if he were teasing him; asking are you really Harry? can you be Harry right now?

The truth of it was that Mark couldn't be Harry. When he wasn't alone in his room at 10 o'clock he was Mark, and being Mark often meant being silent. Though this was another pang in the boy's heart, he had a feeling the intruder knew that. Something about him seemed to understand Mark; as if he had studied him like he himself liked to study people.

A hand swiped the letter from his clammy hands without warning; causing the smaller boy to flinch. Beloved certainly noticed and playfully raised a high-arched brow at him as he ripped open the black letter. He pulled out the familiar folded black paper, grinned at the flustered host and moved closer, tossing the corpse of an envelope to the side semi-dramatically.

"I wanted to deliver this one myself, verbally. If you don't mind of course," the coated figure, now looming just a few feet from Mark, said smoothly. So smoothly and nonchalantly that Mark couldn't help but utter a hushed sure.

He found himself, strangely, incredibly eager to hear the enchanted writing come from his own mouth, with his own voice, standing right next to him. The host was increasingly aware that his own rapid heartbeat wasn't only anxiety, that he was a little more than curious about the intruder, that he was letting himself slip down a greased-up hill, or maybe he had awhile ago, but he couldn't stop now.

Beloved cleared his throat and started to recite the words, his smoky voice somehow as silky and sultry as the neat cursive he always wrote in.

"My desires for you as of late have been seldom erotic. No, in my mind you unknowingly paint vivid pictures of warmth; of hand holding, hair petting, you make me crave it all and yet I've no idea your identity.--"

Mark's heart was beating so fast he felt it might explode. Without thinking, he was inching closer to the intruder, thinking that perhaps his broad chest would be a nice place to lay his head on.

"--How silly would it be of me to ask? How fruitless would it be for me to seek the answer? One may call such a thing delusional, but I'm the one with ears here,"

The intruder paused and, with one great movement, swept Mark toward him with a strong yet gentle arm, planting his head right on his chest. His arm didn't move from his back, urging him silently yet patiently to move closer.

"You think I don't, but I certainly hear the way your breathing gets deeper when you read my letters,--"

Mark completed the sacred action by leaning his whole body into the tall boy and laying one hand on his chest along with his head. He was barely listening to what the voice right above him was saying now, between the heartbeat he was now hearing in his right ear and his own invigorated blood roaring in the left.

"--you respond with some silly comment to cover up your excitement at the scenarios I attempt to paint for you in return for the desires you spark inside me--"

His green eyes started to close and his breathing got deeper as he slipped into serenity and his senses were filled with the cigarette smoke and cologne cocktail lingering on his dark coat.

"Eventually I tell myself, I say, "Do it." So I get my canvas and my paints and I try to make these mental masterpieces a reality for my dearly beloved to see, if he wishes for it to be so..." Beloved's voice trailed off and paused before adding, "Signed, Jason Dean."

Jason's hand rubbed his exposed back, causing sparks of delightful tingles to run up and down his spine. The person who was an sharp-tongued intruder just minutes ago had now melted into something much more raw and exposed. 

"Jason..," Mark muttered as if testing the name on his tongue, though still finding it hard to speak despite the extreme tranquility he now felt with his intruder.

"JD most of the time... And you?" JD inquired.

"Mark," the quieter boy responded while curling his head into JD's chest and his fingers around the edge of his coat. "Mark Hunter."

"A pleasure to meet you, Mark," he replied with humor in his voice. It surely was bizarre to both boys that they had never really talked before, though they had, they had never actually met, their identities hidden behind personas. Yet now, after months of scattered communication, they were meeting each other for the first time with their bodies interlocked in such an intimate, forbidden way.

A few moments to appreciate the electricity of their initial pose and eventually JD's hand was running through Mark's tawny hair, Mark's arms were wrapped around his coated torso, both finding ways to become gradually more intertwined.

The taller boy laid a finger on the other's chin, gently requesting for him to raise his head. He finally peeled his head from the warmth of his chest and accepted a passionate kiss. Whatever this meant, whatever this caused for Mark, he knew one thing: JD's lips were very soft.

Mark was guided to the red couch where they briefly broke away from each other. JD took off his coat, draping it over Mark's exposed shoulders.

"You must be cold," he muttered, smiling at him. It was the first time he had seen a legitimate smile instead of a teasing smirk or grin from JD. The glint of light in his brown eyes and the way happiness showed in his entire face was something beautiful; he wondered if JD felt the same way about his face. It made his heart soar in his chest to think about such ideas.

JD sauntered over to the record player and picked through the collection before laying down a slow and romantic yet exciting song. The music began to spread throughout and fill in the gaps of silence.

Soon enough they were both lying on the couch, Mark's head once again listening to his rhythmic heartbeat, trenchcoat overtop the both of them.

After a while-- seconds, minutes, hours, neither could tell-- the quieter one muttered, "Talk to me..," he shifted before adding, "...I like your voice."

Somehow the confession of such a thing was more flustering than the positions they were already in.

A large hand began to run itself through his hair again, as though this was the thing that helped JD think. Mark certainly didn't mind.

"What did you think of me, when I first began writing to you?" The dark boy asked simply. Mark pretended to ponder the topic for a bit even though the memory was fresh in his mind. He thought about every black letter he was sent quite often.

The first note JD had sent was highly erotic; moreso than the rest had ended up being; it was easy for Mark to assume it was an explosion of hormones and feelings that he had kept to himself for a long time before finally deciding to write. Remembering the contents of the letter made his face extremely hot.

"I-- um... I thought you were just fooling around. I didn't think much of it, but..." Mark trailed off.

"But when I kept sending them..," JD continued.

Mark's heart was in his throat thinking about the rest of the letters now, so much so that he found it somewhat difficult to speak calmly.

"I... thought about them. I thought about them when I didn't expect to," The smaller boy said, squirming uncomfortably at the forbidden confession, though it was certainly already implied between them at this point.

JD must have noticed and wrapped his arms around the boy which sent immediate comfort through his entire being. Mark let out a deep breath and once again focused on his lover's heartbeat.

A thought came to him in a second of weakness, but something told him it would be okay to ask.

"JD?" he asked, speaking into his chest.

"Yes, darling?"

"Did... Do you like me.. or Harry?" he muttered, voice breaking slightly.

JD shifted, paused, then responded in a sincere, intense tone.

"I love you, Mark. I love you so very much."

I... love you," he said, his own heartbeat speeding up as he could also hear JD's was. The realization of such feelings, in some ways, were just now coming to both of them.

Mark had never felt this way for a man before; it was scary, but it was new, exciting, and God just thinking about Jason made his heart overflow.

The two stayed the rest of the afternoon intertwined, silent and slipping between sleep or drinking and rambling about anything and everything on their minds.

It was beautiful, it was overwhelming but in the best way possible. So much so that Mark almost forgot to start his nightly broadcast simply by being lost in thought over his newfound lover-- and his newfound love.

This time when he read the black letter that JD had left on the table, he didn't have a sarcastic, snarky comment to make. He was painfully aware that some of his more dedicated listeners most likely noticed the sincerity of it, but more importantly, he knew JD had heard and knew for sure, now, that he had seen the paintings.


End file.
